


Belonging

by strive2bhappy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 23:25:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1323172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strive2bhappy/pseuds/strive2bhappy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> Dean remembers something from when they were kids and it only takes a little prodding to make Sam embrace it now. </p>
            </blockquote>





	Belonging

man, this was a while ago. i wrote for a meme [](http://oddishly.livejournal.com/profile)[ **oddishly**](http://oddishly.livejournal.com/) hosted [here](http://oddishly.livejournal.com/99691.html). if you haven't perused, you must. there is some YUMMY stuff over there. 

the prompt was: As kids, Dean would make Sam dress up like a girl, and they'd pretend to be husband and wife. The game probably lasted a lot longer than it should have, well into Sam's teens, and now that they're pretty much adults, Sam misses it. Somehow, Dean finds out that Sam still wants to play.

for some reason, it grabbed me and this is the result. 

 **Title:** Belonging  
 **Pairing:** Sam/Dean  
 **Rating:** Lord, this is so NC17  
 **Warnings:** crossdressing, tucking, feminization (only slightly)  
 **Summary:**  Dean remembers something from when they were kids and it only takes a little prodding to make Sam embrace it now. 

 

Dean sees it at some no-name department store along the east coast and he would have missed it had he not been watching Sam so closely. He's always watching Sam -- it's pretty much his default setting -- but recently, he's caught himself doing it more often than not. 

Probably has something to do with no longer listening to that voice of _wrong_ and _brother_ and _illegal_ that always slithered around in the back of his head. Since Sam took the reigns a few months ago and kissed him, outright and open mouthed, just off I-70 in the middle of the night in a thunderstorm, and Dean realized he wasn't alone in his perversion and maybe if they both wanted it, maybe if they were both wired that way, it wasn't as abnormal as he had originally thought. 

For whatever reason, he'd grabbed onto the _fuck it_ in his head and his brother's strong goddamn shoulders and just jumped. Took what he's wanted for longer than he cares to admit because it had been so willingly given. 

And now they're fucking their way across the United States and back, helping people when they can, and truly, Dean has never once in his life felt freer. After everything they've been through, hell and angels and demons and leviathans and purgatory and so much time spent apart, maybe this is the page they should have been on all along. 

Anything that can make Sam stand a little taller while at the same time give him this small, almost childlike smile that suggests he somehow found the secret to the universe can't be all that bad. 

Dean catches that grin because he watches Sam now. Doesn't shy away from checking out his brother when he gets the chance. 

And that's how he sees it. This brief, fleeting sweep of Sam's fingers over some skirt -- not even a terribly pretty skirt, but made of that material that invites touch -- as they pass by in the aisle of some cheap department store Dean can't even name. 

The motion flashes a memory of elementary school and all the kids talking about marriage and the girls trying to get him to stand at the far end of the playground while they walked down the aisle. Dean remembers distinctly thinking there was no way he'd marry any of those girls. None of them knew him and ever would. They'd leave in a month, once dad was finished hunting, and he'd never see them again, so it was stupid. 

But it didn't stop him from telling Sammy about it and finding him a swirly, soft dress and teaching him how to do the start-stop walk across the motel room. Even at nine, Dean had gotten a warm feeling in his stomach watching Sammy walk toward him and thinking _he's mine forever now_. 

But Sam. 

Sam had loved the feeling of that material swirling around his legs and had spun in so many circles, he'd made himself dizzy. He begged Dean not to toss it in the dumpster before they left, so Dean shoved it as far down in his duffle as he could -- instinctively recognizing it was something Dad could never know about -- and sometimes, when Sammy seemed especially sullen or sad, he'd ask Dean to dig it out once their father had gone. 

And Dean would watch his brother dance around the room, just happy that something could bring that smile back. 

As Sam grew, the dresses or skirts grew with him.

Their secret little ritual lasted until Sam was halfway to sixteen and the house dad rented provided a rather spacious living room and one particularly vivid spin around the coffee table gave Dean an unrestricted view of his brother's coltish legs wrapped in a silky, midnight blue rayon material and he was struck dumb with the need to see what that would feel like in his hands. 

Shortly after that night, Dean tossed the skirt and Sam never questioned him about it and they never mentioned it again. 

Dean lets Sam's passing touch go in the store, pays for their socks and some beef jerky and whatever magazine Sam won't put down even when they get to the register, but for the next few days, the memories seem to stick in his head. 

**

It's the dumbest thing. So dumb, Dean almost doesn't say a word. 

Almost. 

They're stuck in traffic in a small town in Iowa, local businesses dotting the storefronts along the main drag and they end up at a long red light right in front of a bridal boutique. 

A ridiculously long red light. 

Dean watches Sam's focus shift to his right and his brother seems fascinated by the miles of white lace and chiffon in the window. 

He kind of wants to bite his own tongue off when he hears himself say, "You remember?"

It takes Sam a few seconds to answer and when he does, his words are obviously distracted, "Hmmm?"

Sam's languid response gives Dean courage. "When we were kids?" 

Sam's head turns slowly, long hair shifting across the collar of his t-shirt and Dean can't resist the urge to comb his fingers through, just once. Sam reacts almost like a cat, tipping his head into Dean's hand with a soft sound of assent. Dean's thumb circles just under Sam's ear and Sam's slow smile is a gorgeous thing to see. 

"What'd you say?" he asks, voice subdued on the heat of the afternoon and the sluggish car ride. 

"Used to love to wear dresses and skirts, remember?" Dean pitches his tone to match Sam's. 

It's primarily because they're connected skin to skin that Dean gets the true impact of his words, but Sam's reaction is visible, too. His brother shivers and wiggles in the seat, denim slipping along leather and he shakes Dean's hand off, straightens his jeans needlessly and sits up a little higher with a whispered, "C'mon, Dean."

Sam's very rarely ever bashful anymore, but that's the only description that flits through Dean's mind as he watches Sam fumble uncomfortably. 

The telltale flush of Sam's neck and the pebbled nipples under his t-shirt say there might be more to this than Sam just being suddenly shy, though. Dean knows curious arousal when he sees it -- especially on Sam. 

Dean can't help but wonder what he's hit on as the light turns green and traffic starts to move again. 

**

It's risky, Dean knows it, but where would he be without taking chances?

Besides, he's always been pretty good at being able to talk his way out of shit he gets himself into and he's got a decent track record with Sam. 

At least that's what he tells himself when he pulls into a parking space along the curb and faces Sam's confused expression. 

They're squatting in a house this time, one that Dean managed to wire so the electric actually works and the plumbing is so-so, depending on how much it rains -- he didn't think anyone had wells anymore. It's just outside of a little burg in the middle of Wisconsin and they've actually been cooking and helping other hunters with intel online and not in all that big of a hurry to leave. He's been planning over the last few days to spring this on Sam and despite the uncertainty, he kind of wants to see what his brother will do. 

Curiosity always seems to be the catalyst that lands Dean in most of his predicaments. 

"I was thinking," he says by way of nothing as the Impala idles on the street. "M'gonna run to get some books we might need for the case Garth's got in Colorado Springs, why don't you pick us something up for dinner? And," he takes a breath on this one, "anything else you might want."

Dean makes a point to give a nod to the dress in the thrift store window. 

Sam follows his glance and sucks in a sharp breath. "Dean, don't be an ass…"

"M'not joking, Sammy, but if you wanna make it a joke, we can do that and forget I said anything," he lets a few seconds of silence tick by. "But if you don't, I'm giving you the option."

Sam's frozen, almost appears incapable of movement, save for his lower lip caught between his teeth. He shoots Dean the quickest look through his bangs he's ever seen and whispers, "You're serious?"

"Only if you are."

It takes a while, but eventually Sam nods, shaky as hell and moves for the door handle. 

"Probably gonna be about forty-five minutes tracking down those books, that okay?" Dean asks.

Sam murmurs a quiet "okay" as he steps out onto the street. 

"Meet you right back here," Dean says as Sam closes the door. 

Dean swears he sees the smallest smile tilt his brother's lips. 

**

Dean makes the right turn into the lane, steadfastly ignoring the pile of bags at Sam's feet despite his raging curiosity. He tries for sincerity, but he knows there's excitement lacing his tone when he pulls to a stop at the front porch and says, "Dang it, Sammy, I forgot something at the library. Gonna have to go back for it. Probably be another hour. That give you enough time?"

At this point, Sam's outright suspicious as he turns assessing eyes on Dean. 

"Seriously, you think an hour's good?" Dean asks. He knows Sam's freaking out a little about this and doesn't want to be a hovering presence in the house if Sam's really gonna go through with anything. He wants to give his brother time to prepare. 

Sam slides across the seat, plastic bags crinkling in the footwell, and puts himself in Dean's space. Sam nudges forward a few inches and connects their mouths for a soft, tentative, almost exploratory kiss. 

When Sam pulls back, he seems to examine Dean. 

"M'not fucking around here if you're not, Sammy," Dean assures. "I swear."

Either the words or the kiss apparently satisfy something in Sam, and Dean absently wonders if his brother's able to suss out Dean's moods and intentions through a simple kiss. A truth barometer from kissing. Only Sam. 

"An hour," Sam parrots softly, gathering his supplies. He's got one foot out the door when he leans back in for a second kiss. This one feels more legitimate, somehow. Feels like a thank you and anticipation and _I can't believe it_ and serious affection all rolled into a single gesture. 

Dean's true to his word and a little more than an hour later, he's opening the front door to flavorful aromas so tempting, they nearly knock him to his knees in the foyer. Damn, but whatever his brother's got on in the kitchen smells fucking fabulous. 

Dean makes it to the end of the hallway, following his nose, hands behind his back, and can't stop his double-take when he sees Sam -- truthfully shocked would be an understatement. Dean's not sure what he was expecting. Barbara Billingsley, maybe, a figure from their childhood. The wife from the Wonder Years, possibly. A dress with a belt and a floral print pattern.

What he finds is something far more real. 

Sam is still very much Sam, only…not. 

His brother's got on a tank top, of sorts, only it's not the wifebeater Dean's used to. It's white, sure, but it's form fitting, showing off Sam's pecs, trim waist and abs. The straps are thin, spaghetti like, and they're perched precariously on his shoulders, like a soft breeze would knock them down.

Sam's skirt is denim. At first, Dean thinks it's shorts, but the frayed hem has no delineation for legs, no separation for the crotch, and it falls mid-thigh -- if that -- and is tight and worn and short and Dean wonders how his brother even fit in it and how much of his ass he could see if he bent over. 

Sam's barefoot and his hair -- _Christ_ \-- his hair looks...almost styled. Since they'd found each other again, Dean had been a little surprised at how long Sam's hair had gotten. Now it looks artfully messed -- like he'd spent the afternoon fucking and couldn't be bothered to do anything with it -- tossed around his face what appears to be haphazardly but Dean would swear has a method. He wonders if Sam bought some kind of curling iron or something. 

It's Sam, only slightly feminine. It's his brother, only with a demure air, a subdued quality that is both strangely out of character and unbelievably hot. 

Sam's shoulders are still as wide and huge as ever, but he carries himself differently, in a way that almost makes him diminutive and the entire picture turns Dean's crank and hardens his dick so fast, he's almost dizzy with it. 

He must make a noise of some kind because Sam glances over and jolts like he's been struck by lightening. It's when Sam's eyes meet his that Dean can see his brother is practically quivering from head to toe, the ends of his slightly curled hair fluttering minutely against his cheek. 

"D-Dean," Sam chokes on a whisper. 

Dean takes a breath and a step into the room and murmurs, "Hey, beautiful."

Something happens as Dean's word settle into the air between them.

Sam inhales, shaky, but his mouth quirks slightly in a hesitant, but really rather stunning smile. "I," Sam clears his throat. "D-dinner's just about ready. Do you wanna sit down?"

The table is set about as well as Sam could manage by piecing together the makeshift flatware and china that had been left behind in the home and somewhere Sam had found a bottle of red wine.

Dean grins and asks, "Don't I get a kiss hello?"

Sam closes the distance between them on a rush of air and gratitude and takes Dean's face in his hands for a thorough, albeit chaste, kiss. There's a scent on Sam, something light and almost floral, that Dean has never smelled before. It's not shampoo, it's not deodorant and Dean thinks, _fuck, Sam's wearing perfume._

Dean huffs in a sharp breath around Sam's lips and pulls back with serious reluctance and a whispered, "You smell good."

Sam makes eye contact through his bangs and asks softly around teeth that want to chatter, "Is it okay?"

Dean nods, hands still held firmly behind his back, has to go in for one more quick kiss, and says, "More than."

Sam grins almost shyly and gestures to a chair before turning back to the stove to ladle something that looks like liquid butter over a sizzling steak in a skillet.

As surreptitiously as he's able, Dean places the stem in his hands on Sam's plate and takes his seat. It had been an insane impulse and even now he's not sure about it, but the single red rose had called to him or some bullshit like that and he bought it for Sam, thinking in for a penny, etcetera. He knows it's kinda lame and a little cliche and he figures if worse comes to worse he can make a really bad joke about it, but part of him really hopes it doesn't come to that.

The oven door creaks as Sam checks on something and announces, "I've got steak and potatoes and I k-know you don't like salad, but--"

His voice dies as he turns and for a wild second, Dean's scared this is all going to be over before it even really starts.

Sam makes a soft sound and Dean looks up and can't qualify his brother's expression. Sam's so unsure, his fingers actually tremble as he reaches out for the flower. He twirls the stem and brings the petals to his nose and Dean can just about see the gears turning in Sam's head, can actually watch as his brother realizes this isn't mockery.

Sam's hazel eyes find Dean's and he quite literally glows.

Dean had brought flowers home for Lisa from time to time -- other girls through the years as well -- and she'd been happy, obviously. Thanked him with a peck on the lips or cheek. But no one, literally no one, had prepared him for Sam's unadulterated joy at such a simple, unassuming token.

And Dean understands, in that moment, in some dilapidated kitchen in the middle of nowhere, that Sam needs these reminders, these gestures, that he's treasured and valued and important.

Sam finds a vase to fill, which is really nothing more than a particularly tall Tom Collins glass, and sets the rose in the middle of the table, leans down to murmur his gratitude against Dean's mouth and Dean hums around his brother's lips.

Dinner is more amazing than Dean ever would have given Sam credit for being able to pull off. The steak literally melts in his mouth and the potatoes have just the right amount of spice to give them the necessary kick to offset the meat.

Conversation ebbs and flows from the town to the cases to the fact that Sam actually got these recipes from the Food Network to where they think the grocery imports their produce and through it all, Sam is reserved and a little coy and sometimes flirtatious.

By the time Dean's fork clangs on his empty plate, his stomach's sated and full and he knows the night's gonna end with him fucking his brother and his dick starts to fatten up again in his jeans.

Sam's been having some trouble keeping the straps of his tank from falling off his shoulders. Every shimmy or movement has the thin material slipping and Dean knows it's ridiculous -- he's seen Sam completely shirtless more times than he can count -- but the tease, the chance of being able to see more skin, even the hint of a nipple, has Dean on edge and breathless and almost sweating.

Sam must sense Dean's appraisal and appreciation because he's unable to sit still for very long, twitchy and restless in his chair.

Sam crosses and uncrosses his legs for what has to be the tenth time in half as many minutes and Dean literally can't take it anymore. He scoots forward and puts his hand on Sam's knee.

A full body tremor shakes through Sam and he whispers, "Dean, d-don't…"

The smooth, satiny skin under Dean's fingers has him ignoring his brother's plea and asking, awed, "Jesus Christ, Sammy, did you shave?"

It's amazing, the feel of the muscles of Sam's shins and thighs with no rough hairs to scrape against and the fact that Sam can't seem to control the pulse of his hips when Dean's touching him just makes it that much hotter.

Dean has to spider-web his fingers out along those long, hairless legs and his brother's reaction is intense and more intoxicating than the wine and makes Dean feel damn powerful.

Sam chokes out a noise that might be Dean's name and Dean needs more of his brother. Right the fuck now.

"C'mere," Dean murmurs, encouraging Sam to stand in front of him, ass along the edge of the table.

Up close, Sam's a veritable buffet and despite the meal he's just eaten, Dean's mouth waters; the floral perfume mixes with a musky scent that's all Sam and Dean wonders if his brother gave his cock and balls a spritz or two as well; the denim molds to Sam's thighs, tiny wisps of material unraveling from the hem that quiver with each ragged inhale Sam takes.

Dean frowns slightly, can't figure out where his brother's hiding that massive cock of his, just when Sam groans quietly, "H-hurts…"

"What hurts, baby?" Dean asks as he gives into the temptation he's had since he walked into the kitchen and slides his palms up under Sam's skirt to the smooth skin underneath. It's a tight fit and Dean's trapped between rough denim and miles of warm, soft thigh, and he thinks he could just fucking live here in this kitchen with Sam at the table, just like this, for the rest of his life.

The tips of his fingers find the elastic trim of what feels like soft, cotton panties and he's dying, literally almost dying, to know the color. Through it all, Sam's humming like a live wire, propped against the table, just letting Dean do whatever he wants. It's crazy fucking hot and Dean's dick is throbbing in his jeans.

When Dean sweeps his thumbs up under the panties, expecting to fondle balls and instead finds flat, bare abdomen, for a second, he's utterly confused.

When realization strikes, it brings with it a watershed of want unlike anything Dean's experienced before.

Sam tucked.

_He fucking tucked his dick and nuts up under his ass inside panties and a skirt._

"S-Sam," Dean only just manages to sputter.

It explains the hurt comment. It explains why Sam has kept his legs together the entire evening. It explains why Sam couldn't sit still through dinner.

Jesus, it's goddamn incendiary.

Sam's trembling almost violently on the edge of the table and Dean's gotta know. He's gotta feel. He reaches around the the backs of Sam's thighs, into the crease where he finds Sam's cock and balls nearly crushed under skin pulled so taut, Dean winces a little in sympathy. And still, his brother's leaking, cock trying to fill, cotton panties soaked through at the slit of his dick.

"Oh, baby," Dean whispers.

"I-I c-couldn't," Sam practically mewls. "C-couldn't be o-obvious. Dean, p-please…"

Dean's not sure if Sam's asking him to stop or keep going, his hips simultaneously move back into Dean's touch and away.

Dean can't help using his free hand to stroke along the empty front of the skirt, jerking a gasping whimper out of Sam. "D-Dean," Sam sobs.

Dean can't remember a time he's ever seen his brother this vulnerable, this stripped raw. Even in schools he never fit into and in the backseat of a bus headed to California. This is Sam, exposed, torn open, unguarded and Dean has never wanted to take care of him, be the big brother, more in his life. "Okay," Dean soothes. "Okay, hold on. Just -- open your legs for me, sweetheart. It's okay."

Sam grabs Dean's shoulders hard enough to bruise and stutters, "I j-just wanted to b-be...not o-obscene."

Dean bends forward, rubs his lips across Sam's collarbone. "I know, baby. You were so good for me, God, so good, but I know this hurts. C'mon. Let's get you feelin' good, okay?"

Slowly, by degrees, Sam releases the iron grip he's got on his balls and cock, but he can only go so far because of the skirt. And damn, Dean's not sure how he's gonna fuck Sam in the thing if he can't even spread his legs enough to untuck.

Dean's careful when he draws Sam's dick out from between his thighs, nibbling along the strap of Sam's tank top to distract his brother and goddamn, but Sam's wet, cotton panties absorbing everything. Dean's wrist and fingers come back slippery once he's got Sam's situated, tip of Sam's cock near the waist of the skirt, a thick, lewd bulge pushing out the material. "M'girl's all wet for me, huh?" he whispers and watches Sam shudder at the words.

Dean's gotta cup his palm over Sam's cock, feel the heat seep through the denim and listen to his brother mewl and gurgle as he churns his hips against Dean's hand. "Feel better?" Dean asks against Sam's neck.

Sam's affirmation is huffed against Dean's ear.

"Think you can get your skirt all wet for me, too?" Dean asks, flicking and swirling his thumb right over the sensitive tip of his brother's dick.

"Dean," Sam groans, nose rubbing along Dean's scalp. "I...th-there's dessert, though, too..."

Deans chuckles, low, "You fucking are dessert, sweetheart."

Sam's lower body lurches into Dean's hand. "Ah...god...ah a-at least l-let me clear the t-table."

Dean bows forward to breathe hotly through the denim just over the head of his brother's cock trying to bust the seams on the skirt. Sam wobbles dangerously and cups the back of Dean's neck with a hiss.

God, the man-woman scent is magnified this close and Dean thinks he could easily spend the rest of the night with his face buried in his brother's crotch.

He makes three sweeps with his teeth along the length of Sam's cock and he knows Sam's close, can feel the rhythmic throb of his whole body and as much as Dean would love to have his brother come against his mouth inside his skirt, there's another part of him that wants to draw this out for as long as he can, so he pulls away.

Sam coughs and groans, low and long, clearly yanked back from the brink.

"Yeah," Dean growls, still petting his brother's legs, unable to completely stop touching Sam. "Why don't you clear the table."

Sam blinks, rapid fire, almost as though he no longer understands the English language.

Dean butts his head against Sam's sternum and whispers, "Wanna see you walk around all hard in your skirt."

Sam rubs his mouth against the top of Dean's head, but must agree because he stands up and moves to pick up the plates. He's uncoordinated and fumbles the silverware and he's having trouble walking completely upright and and the damn straps of his tanktop keep slipping down around his biceps and the sight is making Dean's boxer-briefs damp with precome.

Dean knows he's fucking with both of them by prolonging this but there's something -- just something -- about the sounds of Sam's barefeet padding along the floor and the fact that he went to all this trouble to make Dean a meal and that Dean would swear -- really swear -- that the dark mark on the front of Sam's skirt is growing and spreading wider with each step he takes, which means his brother's getting off on this just as hard as Dean is and just...damn.

Dean can feel his heartbeat in his dick and he cups himself, thinking any contact will bring a little relief, but all it really does is build the heat and want and need even higher in a delicious tease that he can't seem to stop to save his life.

When Sam notices and lets out a muted little moan and looks almost jealous, Dean's done -- he's all for expanding pleasure whenever he can, but he just wants in that damn skirt so bad, the urge is too much, and he gives in by standing up and reeling Sam back to the table, pressing his brother into the wood on his stomach.

The noise Sam makes is nearly animalistic in nature and his hips buck insistently against the edge.

The motion inches the skirt further up Sam's legs, giving Dean an unrestricted view of smooth thighs and just a peek at what look like sky blue panties. Dean grits his teeth -- hard -- and his fingers literally itch to feel the material again and see the full picture, but he gets sidetracked by a line of slick along Sam's skin, trailing from his ass almost to the backs of his knees.

The inside of his brother's legs actually glistens, far more than they would with just precome leaking from the tuck. With far more aggression that he actually intends -- at this point, he can't suppress the lust driving him -- Dean digs his way under the skirt, shoving and forcing the denim up, out of the way to discover light blue panties at least a size too small tightly hugging the cheeks of Sam's ass and a telling patch of slick right over his brother's hole.

_He didn't. Jesus fucking Christ, he didn't._

Dean runs quivering thumbs along the crease of his brother's ass and whispers, "S-Sammy?"

Sam's mindlessly humping the table, but chokes out, "I-If m'gonna be your g-girl I h-had to be ready for you."

Lube -- an insane amount of _lube_ \-- is literally dripping out of Sam's ass.

Fuck, Dean's almost sure the heavy, thick blurt of precome in his boxer-briefs is him shooting too soon, that's how vicious his dick twitches in his jeans, and the need, the suddenly urgent demand of his body makes him frantic and he's shaking, murmuring, "Sammy, God, you gotta let me…I have to…" as he's scraping the panties over Sam's left asscheek and twisting two fingers inside Sam, deep and as far as they can go in one brutal push.

Sam cries out, but his ass lifts against Dean's hand in a broken, fitful grind. Just taking whatever Dean gives and silently asking for more. Fucking amazing.

Dean's fingers are gripped in the hot, tight, moist flesh and he growls, "So hungry, aren't you, baby? So fucking hungry for me…"

Sam's not coherent, face pushed into the table, hair a ragged mess around his chin, his legs slipping open more and more with each uneven breath, trying to lift a knee up to spread himself even wider, but gravity and senselessness making him clumsy and he's started a low keening noise from deep in his chest and sweet fucking Christ, it's too much, Dean needs to see his face.

The vehement, nasty sound of denial Sam makes when Dean pulls his fingers out and turns him over would worry him if he didn't recognize the fierce need beneath it.

"I know," Dean murmurs as he rips at his own zipper, freeing his slippery cock, sits again in the chair and pulls Sam into his lap. "I know, Sammy, c'mere."

It takes very little to slide inside -- lube and precome and sweat coating them both -- and Dean's seated, balls to hips in one, continuous, uninterrupted motion.

Sam's constant, unwavering _ah ah ah_ is more of a gurgle than any real communication, skirt rucked up around his waist, legs stretched out on either side of the chair, panties digging harshly into his groin, bangs curving wet down to his nose and he's easily the most gorgeous thing Dean's ever seen.

Dean shifts through Sam's hair to get to his eyes and asks softly, "You with me?"

Sam's jerky nod is more than Dean thought he'd get and he starts up a circular cadence with his hips. Sam follows with a counter rhythm that's perfectly in sync, but Dean can tell his brother's going more on pure instinct than any kind of deliberation at this point.

Sam's eyes roll up and he arches back against the table, straps of his tank nearly to his wrists, nipples exposed and Dean has to pinch, squeeze and tweak just to watch his brother squirm uncontrollably. Sam latches onto Dean forearms, rapturous expression on his face and his ass clenches strong around Dean's cock, like a hot, wet fist.

"Fuck, Sammy," Dean hisses. "Fuck."

It can't be pretty -- their rhythm is basically formless -- Dean's not even thrusting, they're mostly just rubbing against each other -- but it's gotta be the most intense sex Dean's ever had.

"Dean?" Sam whimpers softly, voice completely wrecked and artless, hips swiveling. "M'yours, right?"

Only the tone of his brother's inflection could bring Dean out of the _wantneednow_ thump pounding in his veins. He grits his teeth, reaches for as much sincerity as he can summon given the circumstances, and says, rough, "Yeah, Sammy, yeah, you know that."

"N-no matter what, though, r-right?"And Dean can hear the falter, the fear, the uncertainty in the question.

Dean realizes what this is in a stunning moment of clarity. Sam wants to belong. Always has. In every stupid school they attended when they were younger, to now, when some part of him, somewhere inside, wants to be Dean's barefoot wife in the kitchen making his dinner. So he can be a part of something. Feel like he's somebody's.

And if there's one thing Dean has known in his 33 years on the planet -- and all the time spent elsewhere -- it's that he has a place for Sam. Always will.

That, he can provide without question or fail.

He just needs to get his brother to really understand it. With a strength he wasn't sure he possessed in his current state, Dean clamps his hands around Sam's hips, doing the exact opposite of his body's demands and stopping the sweet torment of Sam's hot, wet ass swirling around his dick, bringing concurrent, somewhat harmonious, groans from both of them. He ducks his head, makes sure he's got eye contact and says, with absolute conviction, "Sweetheart, you've been mine since the day you were born. Ain't anything ever gonna change that. Not in this life or the next. You hear me?"

Sam's face crumbles and his body seizes and Dean's never had someone come just from words before, but that's exactly what's happening -- Dean's still got Sam locked tight against him, no motion between them, and Sam's filling the front of his cotton panties and clenching in hard, rhythmic spasms on Dean's dick. Over and over and over again.

"Yeah, baby, God," Dean encourages, just watching his brother stuck in a pleasure loop almost enough to set him off. "Ride it out," he pins an arm around Sam's lower back with enough pressure to hold him down, but not interrupt the contractions. "Ride it all out."

It might be the nonsensical babble Sam's murmuring or the fact that he wraps his arms tight around Dean's neck and literally clings or those few, final surges of his Sam's ass against his cock or a combination of all three -- whatever it is, Dean's orgasm surprises the hell out of him because he'd been so enthralled with Sam he'd missed the telltale signs and the quivering pleasure shoots from the base of his spine in an overwhelming, breathtaking and tingling thrill that leaves Dean gulping air and shoving his hips higher and higher with each gush.

When he winds down, when the last blurt pushes out the tip of his dick, they're a mess. Sweaty. Wet. Spent.

Sam slumps forward, gives in to gravity, drapes himself over Dean and for a precarious second, Dean worries the chair might not hold them both, but with his hand buried in Sam's hair and his chin tucked into Sam's neck, he finds he really doesn't want to let go, despite the threat.

They gasp together and cling to each other for a full five minutes, and it's Dean who breaks the relative quiet with a sarcastic, "Damn, wish this place had a dishwasher."

Sam pulls back, pure mischief in his hazel eyes and says, with a smirk, "Oh, it does," and this, this is the smartass baby brother Dean has known all his life. "Don't you know?" Sam's voice drips fake innocence. "The wife cooks the meal and the husband does the dishes."

Dean's chuckle comes from somewhere he thought he'd lost years ago and a warmth fizzes through his chest. "S'that right?"

Sam nods, smug. "Equal rights, baby. Deal with it."

Dean laughs, full and deep, and brings his brother into another hug, just barely managing to keep from saying _I fucking love you_ out loud.

Dean clears his throat and lets his arms fall to the chair, "Alright, smartass, get upstairs. I'll be there in a minute."

Sam grins and goes in for a kiss that's more sweet than carnal, especially considering they're still intimately connected. When he draws away from Dean's mouth, Sam's expression is playful. "Oh, and Dean?"

Dean's caught up in his brother's mood and the post-orgasm euphoria and answers with an encouraging hum.

Sam touches their foreheads together and whispers, "I bought a nightie, too."

Amazingly, Dean's dick twitches with fresh interest just as Sam's pulling up and off with a sticky, squelching sound. It takes an inordinate amount of will not to yank his brother right back down again. He can see Sam's contemplating the same thing when he leers, hungry, at Dean's glistening cock, wet against his own stomach.

Just as Sam's leaning forward, eyes glassy with renewed want, Dean stops him with a hand on his chest, fingers twisting in the straps of Sam's tank. "Upstairs," he directs. "I wanna fuck my wife in bed in her nightie."

The look Sam gives him is eager, wanton and child-like glee all rolled into one.

If the dishes aren't exactly sparkling clean in the short amount of time it takes Dean to hastily toss them in the sink, he doubts Sam will really complain.

~ end


End file.
